The Days Misspent
by Veritara
Summary: **Spoilers for Chapter 6** "I gave you all I had." / "I-" / On the cliffs, in their final moments together, the Pinkertons are closing in and Dutch has to make a decision when faced with the truth. Walk away or lend a hand.


_"The days misspent, the love misplaced has inside it the seed of redemption. Nothing is exempt from resurrection."_

In the distance, Pinkertons called to one another. Wayward shots chinked into the rock behind them. The wind and rain ripped through the mountains, as bitter and merciless as all of them. Whether it was the fight, the weather, or the words that numbed him, Dutch van der Linde felt naught but empty.

He came upon them like that. Micah and Arthur, blooded and bruised, not from Pinkertons but from each other. Dutch longed for the days when Arthur only threw John in the lake when he was jealous. But things had progressed so far. They had all fallen so low. He had to be the peacemaker, find words to calm both the stubborn mules, but his appearance had halted their fight. His boot on the scattered gun had stopped Arthur from making any rash decisions.

"Dutch…" The gnarled whisper clawed at him.

Dutch tried to find words to give him, the right words. But he had expected anger, a murderous rage. He had expected a thief, a turncloak spitting his identity at last. He hadn't expected the youth in Arthur's face. He hadn't expected to find his desperate, dying boy.

"I gave you all I had."

Dutch felt the world stutter to a stop. Arthur kept whispering, his voice little more than a gasping wheeze. He was right, he was always right. Dutch couldn't understand the words, but the meaning was plain enough. The message Arthur had thrown his life away to deliver to him. The rat. By standing against him, he had stood for him. Like Hosea.

The weight of his failure crushed him, the last months compounding until the world shrunk to between only Dutch and Arthur's half-closed swollen eyes.

Dutch took his boot off the revolver, but Arthur only rolled away, still wheezing words the storm ripped away from them.

"I…" The words stuck in Dutch's throat, but he didn't even know what they would be.

"Come on, buddy," hissed Micah. He grinned through broken teeth, familiar and warm. "He's dying, just leave him. We made it. We won."

Dutch turned his glare to Micah. No one had won. Didn't he understand? All those weeks and months, the clever ego-stroking, the validation and adoration, it was so obvious now. They were all losers. Each and every one of them. But Dutch was the biggest. He had the most to lose. When he lost, the family he had built was lost. It was gone and there was no recovering it. Dutch stood as a statue. This was over. The last straw. His legacy of twenty years crashed down around his ears. He had nothing left. No money, no camp, no gang, no followers.

A dawning anger blistered in him. He didn't even know he had the energy left for such things. He wanted to draw his pistol, put one final bullet in Micah's grinning face. His final failure.

"Go," was all he said. His voice hung hollow, barely a whisper above the storm. But Micah heard.

Micah snarled, all friendship vanishing in an instant, and he stormed away, limping into the distance. His final ally, his final betrayal.

Dutch kicked aside the revolver and bent down to Arthur's side.

"Arthur!" he called.

But he didn't respond.

So close now, Dutch could see the broken veins in his face, the rhummy redness of his eyes, the clammy pallor. His broad frame had thinned to a skeleton, hidden under so many layers. Blood tinged his chapped lips, purpling eyes swollen shut. He was sick, far sicker than any of them had imagined. Dutch put a hand to his forehead. Even in the cold rain, Arthur burned a terrible fever.

The Pinkertons were coming. A score of boots clamoured over the rocks. The voices became clearer. Dutch brushed away Arthur's wet hair from his forehead. They would be here any moment. He had to make a decision.

 **OOO**

Arthur faded in and out of consciousness. Visions of sunrises and bucks in the woods haunted him, pierced by a vicious icy storm and a persistent pain in his chest. The bucking rock of a horse jolted through him. Something trickled down his throat, a faint glow pierced through the numbing cold. He coughed and a knife twisted in his chest. A warm wetness filled his mouth, every desperate rasping breath a struggle not worth the pain.

Arthur Morgan did something he thought he never would again. He opened his eyes.

The first thing he was aware of was the dryness. The air was warm and welcoming. A bed lay beneath him, rough, but not unpleasant. He tried to raise his head, but could only roll it to the side with a groan. Every muscle ached, a deep soreness that went beyond bruises and his sickness. A room full of furniture, a table, chairs, wardrobe. And a familiar smell. A cigar smoldered on a plate, its smoker gone.

Arthur's mind swam. The battle with the Pinkertons in the mountains, his confrontation with Micah, with Dutch. Ms Grimshaw. John.

Arthur ground his teeth and summoned the strength to sit up. The little bastard. John had actually come back for him — a dying man, when he had a family, a wife, a young son. A future, a chance. Would that bastard never understand what he had before he so eagerly threw it away? He would have to give that little shit a piece of his damn mind.

"Good morning." The voice was worn and tired, but instantly recognisable.

For several minutes, all Arthur could do was stare. Dutch leaned against the doorframe, looking ragged but the same as ever. Purple bags hung under his eyes, but they were sharp and clear. Arthur swallowed back his hope.

"Lay back down, Arthur," said Dutch. He dragged a chair closer. "I had the doctor in. Few broken ribs, black eyes, some nasty bruises, and… I'm sure you know the rest."

Arthur didn't move. He was sure he looked as wretched as he felt. "What happened on the cliff?"

Something in Dutch's guarded expression flickered. "I told Micah to leave." he said shortly. "I dragged you from the cliffs. Stole a horse. Rode the beast near to death. We're in Valentine. It's been… about three days."

"Why?" Arthur tried to stand.

Dutch braced a hand to steady him as a hacking coughing fit ripped through his chest again.

"Why what?" asked Dutch.

"Why'd you bother?"

Dutch sat Arthur back on the bed. With a sigh, he took a seat next to him. He smiled that charming Dutch smile, but his eyes stayed worried. "Because you're my son."

Once, Arthur would've loved those words. He would've drunk them in and smiled back, letting them warm him from the inside out. But they were empty and cold now.

"Horseshit," he snorted.

Dutch didn't even flinch. "Twenty years, I raised you, taught you, loved you as my own," he said, his voice soft and earnest. Arthur wanted to believe it. He had heard it so many times before. "No matter what either of us have done to throw that away, it can't simply be put aside."

Arthur shook his head. It was tempting to keep his mouth shut. To let Dutch believe whatever lies he wanted, to let him put his hand on his back and spend his last few days in some hotel in the middle of nowhere playing nice. The gang was gone, what more damage could the man do? But he couldn't.

"You left me to die, Dutch," whispered Arthur. An overwhelming emotion roughened his hoarse voice further. "Me and John both. Say what you want, but you and I know what you did. Some stains ain't ever gonna get washed clean."

"I—"

"Between us, I didn't do anything wrong. I tried to stop you." But I couldn't. Arthur would've gone on, but another cough bent him double and stole his breath.

By the time he sat back up, Dutch had lost his kindly demeanor, replaced by the familiar look of impatience and frustration. "I didn't need to be stopped," he said in a forced calm. "I had—"

"—a plan?" pleaded Arthur. "Please, Dutch. Come on, even you had to know it wasn't sensible."

Dutch was silent so long Arthur thought he would leave him. A cold hard silence cut between them. He had crossed a line. Again. Dutch would just leave him alone to die or shoot him himself. Either way Arthur knew he didn't have long left. Minutes. Days. It was all the same, really. He had already done everything of worth he would ever do. He had saved John and his family, that had to count for something.

Arthur looked back up at Dutch. A grim anger set his hard features. "I did all I could," swore Dutch, "to save a lot of sorry fools that didn't want to be saved—"

"Dutch."

"—all they thought of was themselves. We could've left, we could've stayed together. We could've been safe and happy. Together." He snarled the word like a curse.

A lump rose in Arthur's throat. Another one of Dutch's pretty dreams. "Could we?" he asked softly.

Arthur held his eyes and Dutch's anger melted. His throat worked and his mouth opened and shut, but no words came out. With a rattling sigh, his head collapsed into his hands and a grave stillness fell over him.

"I don't know anymore, Arthur," he said into his hands. "I just don't know. They're all gone, or dead. All of them. I—"

Arthur had thought he had seen Dutch in every compromised position the last few months. Half-crazed, talking to thin air, yelling paranoid delusions, murdering strangers, even punching through a wall in Lakay. But Arthur had never seen him so utterly without hope. It wasn't a wet sadness, full of yelling and tears, but a dry one. His shoulders sagged with the weight of his world, his eyes sunken and hollow. Arthur knew the look, had seen it in his own mirror. When purpose and hope had left, they were more ghost than man.

"John made it," said Arthur. "Him and his family."

"John," spat Dutch with disgust.

"You can't blame him for wanting to take care of them."

When Dutch turned back to him, his eyes shone with unshed tears. "He chose that whore and her brat over us, Arthur. Over all of us."

"Was that something Micah told you?" Arthur couldn't stop himself, but as soon as he said it he realised he was right.

Dutch bolted up, refreshed with a new rage that Arthur would've once called frightening to behold. A flicker of life sprung back to him as he clung to his anger. He paced, his spurs clanging against the wood, his hands wringing behind his back. "That fucking piece of shit. That… that rat. I knew it, Arthur. It was always him. He was too…"

Arthur held his silence. Dutch had never known. The sort of ego-stroking, the yes-manning that Micah was so good at Arthur and John had never been able to do. Dutch and Hosea had raised them too well. They were the honest sort. Dutch was blind to all the little suggestions and whispers that went with Micah's praise, that the admiration wasn't real.

"I'll kill him," said Dutch with such menace that Arthur turned back to him.

"Dutch."

"He betrayed us, boy," he snapped, his voice raw. "He betrayed me. He played me for a fool and destroyed my life's work, our family. He—"

"Well, sit yourself down, he ain't here now." Arthur coughed into the crook of his elbow. He wiped the blood on the back of his hand.

The wind left Dutch's sails again, his brows falling as he sat next to Arthur and put a hand on his leg. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked. "Did anyone know? When? Was I…"

As Dutch drifted off again, Arthur only shrugged. Dutch's old fatherly concern prickled something in him. "Reverend guessed, once he sobered up some," he said. "No one else knew, though. Don't even think Sadie or John did, in the end. I saw a doctor in San Denis—"

"In San Denis?"

"After Guarma."

Dutch turned back to the hands that hung limp in his lap. "I should've been there, boy. I—" His sigh sounded half a dry sob. "I should've known before. That's on me."

Arthur couldn't disagree. These last months people had all been too concerned about themselves and their own problems of surviving. They hadn't noticed when Arthur coughed every now and then. He had always hid under his hat and wore too many layers. Few were concerned, even fewer asked. That silence hurt the most. Six months ago, he would've counted his remaining life in years, decades if he were lucky. Three months ago, maybe a year. Now, he had weeks, if that. Days. And now everyone that had cared for him had taken to their own lives — for the better, of course.

"Why're you still here, Dutch?" rasped Arthur. "I'm more corpse than anything and dragging me along, staying in one spot — the Pinkertons—"

"Why did you come back to camp and tell me Micah was a rat?" asked Dutch quietly. "All your so-called innocents had left. The girls, Sadie, Trelawny, the boy, all of them. What was left for you in camp? Why'd you come back?"

Arthur swallowed and looked Dutch in the eye. Tilly had begged him not to. It was almost certain death, going to confront Micah in that state when Arthur all but knew Dutch was too far gone to care what Arthur said. But Arthur didn't have much left he could do in this life.

"Because I had to."

Dutch smiled, tired and weary. He nodded and clapped Arthur on the shoulder. The familiar action threatened to wring tears from his eyes. A silent understanding passed between them and Arthur knew. Dutch's fingers and eyes lingered over the sharp, protruding bone.

"I…" Dutch trailed off again, lost for words or stuttering over some sentiment he couldn't express. Arthur knew the feeling. "I should get you some more ice for those bruises," he said at last.

He moved to stand but Arthur tapped him on his side and Dutch stayed.

"What're you gonna do?" asked Arthur. "After."

Dutch tore his eyes from Arthur's face. There was no need to elaborate.

"Once a man has fallen so far, there ain't any climbing back up," said Dutch with a bitter hollowness. His hand slipped from Arthur's shoulder. "There's only down."

"Don't give up," whispered Arthur.

But the attempt was feeble. Dutch needed far more than he had left to give, if anyone ever could help him now. Arthur felt he could talk till he took his last breath and it wouldn't matter. Whatever would come after was a fight Dutch had to undertake alone. Arthur wished he could be there.

Arthur doubled over and coughed, wet and hacking. Once he started he couldn't stop. His breath wheezed painfully, his lungs burning with the effort as they expelled everything they took in. He spat out a mouth of slimey coppery blood.

"Are you sure?" he asked, wiping the rest off with his sleeve.

Dutch had gone pale, the purple bags under his eyes standing out all the more. "I…" He swallowed hard. "I am," he swore. "I am."

Arthur had long given up hope of trusting his promises, but he desperately wanted to. He needed to. He was afraid. Faced with it now, he didn't want to die alone. A death in the mountains, against Micah, having saved John and done all he could, that would've been worthy. Alone, aching, beaten, abandoned again, thrown onto the streets of Valentine would be too much to bare.

Dutch cleared his throat and stood, picking his cigar from the plate he had left it on. He returned to his chair and crossed his legs. "Can you ride or should we take a cart?" he asked.

Arthur straightened himself. He sounded so much like the old Dutch for a moment. "Where're we going?"

"Doctor said to get you somewhere warm and dry," said Dutch efficiently. "New Hanover should be good enough, but I'd rather we find us a larger town. Lose the last of the Pinkertons somewhere new. There, you can…" Dutch fingered the cigar and breathed another breath of smoke. "You can rest, son."

Arthur smiled, tears threatening to spill over. "I can ride, Dutch."

Dutch returned the smile. "Then we better steal you a horse."

 **OOO**

The first few weeks were almost easy. His cough didn't improve and no matter how slow they rode, the horse still jostled his ribs, but he was able to take it easy. After robbing half of Valentine at gunpoint, Dutch had the money to set them up in a hotel for a while and enough cash to throw at the doctor to look the other way. Arthur was shot up with enough stimulants to kill an elephant, but he had to admit he felt almost normal. A chilly wind still brought a wretched hacking cough, but the Heartlands was mostly dry and pleasant.

The days felt almost ordinary. Arthur would wake in the hotel, clear his throat on his first breath, and accept whatever breakfast Dutch threw his way. Without fail, Dutch would be awake and alert well before Arthur. Sometimes they would take a walk out into the country with a new varmint rifle and set up a camp for the day. The smoke irritated Arthur's lungs, but the fresh air and bloody venison was enough to tempt him. As well as seeing the very rusty Dutch attempt to hunt. Arthur tried to hold back his laughter, as it would inevitably lead to a coughing fit, but a few chuckles managed to escape and even Dutch had to crack a smile.

The peace felt so fragile at first that Arthur could've shattered it with a misplaced word. But, as days blended together without incident, he began to believe in it. A comfortable quiet settled between them and, if Arthur squinted, it almost looked like the old days. Dutch and Hosea would spend their days hunting and rifling through pockets, scrounging up the money to keep John and Arthur in the hotel.

John. Hosea.

Neither Dutch nor Arthur had mentioned the rest of the gang. Micah was too terrible to contemplate and Arthur had a feeling Dutch resented John for being able to have a happy ending, of a sort. If he even was happy. Arthur hoped he was, in spite of how it all ended.

Arthur could hardly describe his own situation as happy, but he was content, if only for now. He had given his journal and everything he owned to John, but Dutch had bought a new clean book for him. Many days, they walked out to creek or, on days where Arthur couldn't catch his breath no matter what he did, they sat on the benches in town and Arthur took to sketching. The rhythmic etching of pencil on creamy white paper calmed him and, while he had nothing left in him to put into words, he filled the pages with landscapes and portraits of passing people.

Days and weeks passed between them in an easy harmony. His illness was the elephant in the room, of course. But neither spoke of it. There wasn't much to say. He would occasionally hack up bloody phlegm in a persistent cough. Dutch would steady him when Arthur couldn't grip a wall, and then their life would return to the new normal. They would smile and drink, hunt and fish, talk about the old days and speak not a single name.

But Arthur felt his breath shorten each day. From both his mirror and clothes, he knew his already thin frame was becoming skeletal. He forced as much food in him as he could, but he raw throat pained with every swallow. It took him a few minutes to get out of bed, every motion at the top of the day a herculean effort demanding all the reserves of his lungs.

One day, it pushed him past the limits of his endurance and he fell back into bed. "Not now," he croaked, waving an arm at Dutch. "You go fishing, I'll catch up with you. Just need a minute."

Arthur couldn't bare to look him in the eye, but once he did, he regretted it. In Dutch's face, Arthur saw his own tiredness reflected in the grey tinge to his skin, the unruly hair and untrimmed beard he had begun to sprout.

Dutch wasn't the only one lying for his own comfort. Even if neither said it, they both knew it was the start of something.

Dutch sat next to him and grimaced a smile. "I'll stay, son," he whispered.

That day, Arthur managed to crawl out of bed sometime around noon. His weakness shamed him, but it didn't seem to matter to Dutch. They sat in the saloon most of the day playing blackjack. Even as his hunger waned, he found his thirst didn't. The liquor couldn't have done him any good, but what was the matter of a day or two when it meant he could smile and laugh again with good old Dutch?

Soon after that, Arthur lost track of his days and nights. His shallow ragged breath grew only worse and wetter, leaving him with little and less energy. All the injections and whiskey in the world couldn't have made him rise. Sometimes there were good days, and he could throw himself into a chair at the window or even leave the hotel. But once it started, the landslide all but consumed him.

They spent all their time in a ten by ten room. What had once felt like a luxury turned fast into a prison. The four walls closed in on them. The world outside might've been the moon for all Arthur knew of it. Dutch dragged a chair so he was still in Arthur's sight. A perpetual bottle dangled from his hand, half empty.

Arthur sketched in bed, propped up against a few pillows, as he often did these days. His eyes fluttered shut again and he willed them to open. He had slept most of the day, probably most of the last several days. Coughing, he shut his journal and tossed it aside.

"What time's it?" he rasped.

Dutch lifted his head. "Almost three," he said dryly. "The seventeenth."

Arthur didn't have it in him to ask what month it was. Probably still May, but it coud've been August for all he knew. He rolled his head against his shoulder. The room had become more than a prison of late. It was a crypt. Dark, dusty, walls slick with whispers and the sound of his own wet coughs.

"I don't…" He lost his breath. "... wanna die…"

Dutch scraped his chair closer. His face swam into view. Already, it took on a haunted look. "If I could do anything, son, you know I would."

"... here," finished Arthur with a struggle. "I don't… wanna die here."

Dutch clasped his hand around Arthur's. They held eyes and battled wills for some time until Dutch finally turned away. He reached over to put a hand to Arthur's forehead. It wasn't necessary. Arthur shook it off. He could've told Dutch he was clammy and sweating.

"I brought you here to rest," said Dutch. His voice and hand trembled. "I… I…"

Arthur smiled. His cracked lips stretched with a creak. "It was good," he said.

Dutch swallowed back any further protests and gave Arthur a hand up. The room spun with vertigo and Arthur struggled to keep his ragged breathing shallow. He felt like he was drowning, every breath tinged wet and heavy.

He leaned against Dutch as they slowly made their way from the hotel. Arthur stumbled over the road, but Dutch caught him, dragging him back to his feet.

"When did you… get so strong… old man," muttered Arthur. He fought free from Dutch's clutches and staggered to sit under a tree at the edge of town.

"Is now the time for sarcasm, Arthur, really?" asked Dutch dryly.

Arthur strained to keep himself to shallow breaths, but a cough still tore his way through his chest, spitting blood onto his sleeves. Once it finished, Dutch braced an arm against his back and hauled him back to his feet.

"I'm alright," managed Arthur.

They stumbled along at a slow pace, with scattered bloody breaks as Arthur's body threatened to give out. Arthur wished he had Dutch drag him from bed yesterday, the day before. Anything for a little more time, a few more hours of energy.

Panting, Arthur collapsed at the creek's edge. The late afternoon sun filtered through sparse green leaves, golden and sparkling on the water. He dug pencil thin fingers through the soft wet earth as he settled himself. He felt Dutch sit behind him. Arthur fought back the urge to cough, bracing his shoulders against the pains in his chest.

"It'll be alright, boy," whispered Dutch, his voice tight.

A hand against his back. Arthur leaned into it, closing his eyes. Though stiff, arms wrapped around him to pull him close. The emotion in his throat broke through and he coughed blood into Dutch's shirt.

"You'll be alright, Arthur," he said again. His breath shuddered. "Hosea will be waiting for you. Eliza and Isaac, too."

Arthur was hardly surprised Dutch knew the names. As a boy, he had never hid secrets well. Still, it had been more than a decade since he had even spoken of them casually. The names still tore ragged holes in him, reminding him of old failures.

"I'm going south, Dutch," whispered Arthur.

"No, you're not, son," he said. The arms tightened, a tremble running through the clenched fingers. "You're not. I'll have a word with Saint Peter on your behalf."

"Thanks." Arthur's lips turned into a cracked smile.

"Don't worry," said Dutch. "I'll be along soon, I'm sure."

Arthur stiffened and tried to pry the energy to sit up. "You're not—"

"Oh, you know me, Arthur," he said. His eyes shone wet with emotion or drink. "I'm much too fond of myself to take my own life. I just — I can't imagine living too much longer."

"You'll do… something stupid," Arthur managed.

Dutch smiled. "I usually do."

Arthur stuttered for breath. "John, don't…"

But Dutch was already shaking his head. "I won't," he promised.

"Don't hurt him," whispered Arthur. He wished he had time to elaborate, to tell Dutch to try to make amends with John, to help them make a life, to stop little Jack from following in all their footsteps, to join them himself if they would take him. But even if he did have the time, Arthur had a wretched feeling it wouldn't matter. Dutch had decided his fate a long time ago, and this was a momentary lapse in what had begun before Beaver Hollow.

Dutch's smile twisted. "Can I kill Micah?"

Tears broke through Arthur's eyes. "Shoot the bastard."

"I will, son. No need to worry about that."

Arthur's head hung, rolling to rest against Dutch's chest. Hands stroked his back as another desperate cough choked him. His breath shortened again.

"I'm sorry," whispered Arthur. Even if he had the breath for it, mere words could never express what he felt for Dutch, for betraying him, for staying with him. "'Bout how… things ended."

Dutch sighed. A full clean breath that rattled, not with sickness but emotion. "Oh, Arthur."

Arthur's eyes fluttered closed and he struggled to open them. As the minutes passed, he felt the string of his breath cut short. His rapid, shallow breaths took in less and less air, leaving him dazed and lightheaded. The feeling of heavy wetness and taste of blood intensified.

"Me too," whispered Dutch.

Arthur's eyes cracked open and saw a buck across the creek. Proud, strong, healthy. The sunlight shone off the thick coat and the creature turned down the creek, disappearing off into the golden light. And Arthur's eyes saw no more.

 **OOO**

Dutch was proud of himself. He did what he had done for twenty years, what he had failed so hopelessly at these last months. He had stayed strong. In his last weeks, Arthur hadn't seen him cry, hadn't seen him express the faintest hint of the rage that bubbled just under the surface.

When Arthur's heaving shoulders fell silent and his glassy eyes no longer spoke of the tired soul that lurked behind them, a crushing numbness left no room for anger. He wished he could cry, had a target to pursue, something to blame, someone to kill. But all he was left with was the body of his son in his arms, in a strange piece of eastern country. And now there were things to do.

Moving as if in a dream, Dutch gently laid Arthur's body to the side and returned to town for a shovel. A pretty enough spot across the creek would do. He dug the grave as he had helped do for so many before him. Now, he was the last one.

The work took hours and it was well past dark by the time he returned to the hotel. Dutch uncorked his bottle of whiskey and poured the rest of it down his throat. It burned a heat through to his core. He would need to return with a marker of some sort, something simple. He had enough cash for the time being. Food, board, drink. Stealing more wouldn't be too hard neither.

He cast a glance at himself in the mirror and snorted. Had the reflection not moved with him, he wouldn't have recognised himself. Filthy and matted with sweat, dirt, and Arthur's lifeblood, he sure made a sight. He clawed a hand through the unruly hair of his head and face. His beard was coming in well, though. Should disguise him from eager bounty hunters. Before, such a gang of outlaws would be enough of a deterrent. But, that was before.

Dutch counted out the change for a bath and dug a hand through the wardrobe for clean clothes. His fingers brushed the leather of Arthur's jacket, softened and cracked from over a decade of wear. A bloodstain on the inner lining spoke of a stab wound he obtained in a bar back in California. It had eased to the shape of his broad shoulders but had hung off him in the last months, unless he wore an absurd amount of layers beneath. Dutch should've known.

He left the jacket aside and found himself a clean shirt and pants. He probably should burn the old clothes, in case of infection. But, how long had it taken Arthur to slow down? Weeks? Months? It would be enough, more than enough.

Dutch's eye caught sight of Arthur's last journal and his bluster left him. As a puppet cut from its strings, Dutch sat limp on the bed and drew the book into his lap. Thin, unstained, still new. The pages were stiff from the machine that had made it. But within, Arthur's warm hand had scrawled across them. Dutch had seen few of the drawings. Few of them even over the last twenty years.

Dutch stroked the cover and opened the book gingerly, as though it would fall to pieces in his hands. The first several pages showed scenes from town, detailed in an expert hand. The boy could've been an artist had he ever pursued it professionally. The fuzzy graphite lines formed faces, trees, animals.

Dutch turned another page with a trembling sigh. The drawings became more imperfect, the faces sloppier. This was when Arthur had become bedridden at last. More than two weeks had passed with him doing little more than drawing and coughing his way into an early grave.

But Dutch knew the faces. Every last one of them. Mary Linton, Eliza. A boy who must've been his son. Tilly and the other camp girls, dating back years. The Callander boys. Ms Grimshaw. Pearson. Swanson. Charles. Bill. Javier. Sean. Lenny. Half a hundred faces and names, guns and riders who had shared their fires and people they had buried. Camp and tents, guns and bottles. John and Abigail. Hosea and Bessie. Dutch and Annabelle. Arthur himself, whole, healthy. Smiling.

For a few precious moments, Arthur seemed to sit beside him. His essence contained in the graphite pictures he had drawn coalesced into a form, a presence that filled the room and his heart with the same smile Dutch had known so well for twenty years. His son. Hosea joined him, sprung from the pages what bore his likeness. Annabelle. His brother. His lover.

With a watery smile, Dutch turned through the next pages. The same faces again and again shone back at him, from every angle, every age through the years. Smiling, drinking, holding hands, full of youth and health and happiness. Alive. Together.

The next page was blank. A shaking hand turned through the following pages. Blank. Soft, creamy, ready to be filled with drawings that would never come. The ghosts vanished as sudden as a candle flame, as the light of his life finally blew out.

* * *

 **AN. Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed it, I'd love to hear your feedback. Anything you liked, your favourite line, anything you felt could be improved on, I'd love to hear your thoughts.**


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